Day 30

Little Pig, Little Pig, Let Me In . . .

Yet another adventure filled day in Madam Chabou's house of horrors.  Laundry proves to be the proverbial thorn in our sides.  Madam Chabou's washing machine has begun to make some interesting sounds.  Sort of starts as a low grumble.  A clap of thunder from an approaching thunderstorm.  The kind that would send chills up Dorothy's spine.  The grumble is followed by a screach and clank.  Then a resounding thud, followed by more screaching and clanking.  To stick with the Wizard of Oz theme, the whole scene is about like freeing the Tin Man from his rusty perch in the forest.  If you listen real close you can almost hear a muffled voice say "oil can".  Our first load of laundry ran in the washing machine for most of the day.  This wasn't by choice but by necessity as the washing machine would simply not let go of its never ending clutch on my laundry.  No matter how hard I pulled on the door, it would simply not open.  To add further insult to injury, the washing machine has a window so you can watch your laundry spin around.  I could see it, I just couldn't get to it.  I could see my underwear shedding tears as though it was certain it would never see me again.  After several hours of intense hostage negotiations, I finally coaxed the spinning devil to let some of the hostages go.  As with any police action, a price had to be paid in exchange for the release of the garments.  Apparently, the washing machine had heard our pleading for the safe release of our garments, but it was unfortunately in no position to grant our request as it was still quite full of water.  After ringing our our wash along the river bank as our frontier ancestors had in years gone by, it was time to bail water out of the machine itself.  Rather than passing a pail hand to hand in an assembly line fashion, I decided it would be best to see if we could let the machine sort out its own problems in therapy.  I turned the dial one last go round, slammed the door on an invisible load and walked away.

I haven't had the heart to go back and check on the washing machine ever since.  A tsunami of water has not burst forth into our kitchen, so I am going to assume that everything went according to plan.  With our laundry woes fresh in our hearts we decided it was time for a little distraction.  The children are still a little under the weather, so it was decided that the Carnival was out for the day.  A quick trip to the park would be enough to stretch their legs a bit and would certainly be easier on our wallets.  It was a sunny afternoon, and for the first time in a month of Sunday's, we had mom home and to ourselves.  We took full advantage and went for a long outdoor adventure that warmed everyone's hearts.  Everyone's . . . except "Benji's" of course.  He had been siting in the cold front seat of my 206 for the duration of the weekend.  Rejected and feeling unloved, I could see him peering at us from his curb side prison.  After sever minutes of debate and negotiation with my youngest, it was agreed that Benji could go with us to the park.  A tear rolled down Benji's face as I pulled him out of his little case and set him in the back seat of the Renault.  I could tell he was greatful for the gesture.

Unfortunately, the youngest was still not thrilled with his prize and ended up throwing Benji into the back hatch like yesterday's garbage.  The entire ride to the park, I could faintly hear Benji sobbing from the second round of rejection.  In an effort to save Benji's fragile emotional state, I stuffed his little teddy bear torso into my jacket pocket when we exited the vehicle.  He would infact have his day in the sun, even if my youngest offspring didn't want him along.  What he didn't know wouldn't hurt him, right?  Benji giggled in glee from the front pocket of my coat.  I had to quiet him down for fear his adversary would catch wind of the hijinx.  Eventually, conversation of poor old Benji got the best of the youngest of our crew and he agreed that he would pose for an occasional picture with our little stuffed buddy.  Gleefully Benji made friends with my son and the photographs are definitely going to make it into our scrap book of life here in France.  I will return the bruised and emotionally battered teddy bear to the school tommorow and perhaps his wounds will heal with the aide of one of the other children in my son's class.  And so ends our weekend with BENJI.  I only hope that my son does not have another good week at school, for I don't know if Benji's stuffed psyche can handle another weekend of rejection.

It will be back to the daily grind come morning, with the hope that next weekend will bring with it a bit more relaxation than this one had.  My wife and I will welcome the week with open arms as we are to begin our organized French classes.  Hopefully, the more intensive instruction will yield better results than our self guided attempts with Rosetta Stone.  My wife and I will not be in the same course.  She will have personal lessons and I will be in a group course with 9 other folks.  That should be an amusement park ride that you won't want to miss.  I will keep you posted as I make an ass of myself in this up an coming educational endeavor.  It appears that my classes will be more based upon cultural activities than my wife's.  It should provide for mountains of fodder for weeks to come.  The first painful moment in our new education, was that when they called to set up the classes, they left us a message in French.  If I could understand the freaking measage, I wouldn't be taking the classes to begin with now would I?  I don't think we are off on the right foot already.  Wish me luck.  Untill tomrrow . . .